That house would steal your soul away if only you forgot yourself for a quarter of a second.

That house would turn your heartbeat into its own lifeblood and leave you walking empty.

If walls could talk, they always say. Oh, if these walls could talk they would not ooze memories. They would not crackle with a record-like track of recorded life. If these walls could talk, everything would still be silent. Becase whatever finds its way into that house never comes out the same, if at all.

That house. There was something about that house.

Eye-windows – cracked, dirty, and yet somehow, some way, all-seeing. And when you caught your reflection in one of those windows – even in passing – you’d see something fit to make your skin crawl straight off your body.

You could almost tell from the outside what slept within, but not quite. All you knew when you walked by that gaping mouth of a door was that you never wanted to cross over its threshold.

And if you were lucky, you wouldn’t.